He jabs a finger at me, words spitting like lye. “And I put him in the ground for it. For you. For us. And what do I get? Not gratitude. Just you starvin’ yourself and callin’ me a devil.” The paper tears in his fist, and he throws the shredded ball aside. With that, he storms out, slamming the door behind him, leaving me to sit with the blister of his words.
Perhaps he’s right, and I judged him too harshly.
Perhaps he spared me a worse fate.
Though he must know killing was a gruesome act to witness. How can I bless the hands that so easily spilt blood?
And yet, I sail under a ticket scrawled in a dead man’s name nevertheless. I am just as damned as Kodiak, and yet, I offered him no grace. Worse, I was cruel.
I must make it right.
Chapter 27
KODIAK
Nobody’s ever talked to me like that and lived to tell it. I’m a bull, seeing red, charging straight to the saloon. Ain’t no proper saloon neither, but a first-class joint—no arguing, no fighting, just men with their brandy and the air thick with cigar smoke. Ain’t half bad, ’less you’re looking for trouble. Tonight, I’m hiding from it.
If I’d stayed in that cabin with that ungrateful brat, I’d have hurt her, and God knows I couldn’t live with myself if I did. If nothing else, I’m a man of my word. I swore I’d protect her—even if that means protecting her from me.
What happened to that angel who fussed over me? Tender hands, soft voice. Now it’s nothing but complaints. Guess I shielded her too well. All I ever been is good to that woman, and she’s got the damn gall to call me a monster. Say I don’t feel nothing.
I know what I felt when that son of a bitch laid hands on her—pure rage. Fact I gave him a chance to square things with God ’fore I cut him ear to ear was a mercy he didn’t deserve.
I belly up to the bar, order a whiskey neat. Ain’t five minutes past with me sipping slow ’fore I hear it: “Mr. Byron.”
Damn near ignore it till I realize it was meant for me. Turn, find Taft sitting at a table with a few other men. I lift my glass, give him a nod, and face the bar again. Sometimes a man just wants to drink alone.
Truth is, that’s the way I prefer to drink. Alone. And it ain’t no wonder. World’s gone soft. Men hide behind the law like a mother’s skirts. Used to be you stood your own ground, settled your own scores. Now they whimper at a curse word, running to the law like babies. A man like me can’t even lay low no more. Now, some clerk taps a key in Kansas, and every badge from here to Texas knows my name. Shit just keeps getting worse. Yet, here I am, wishing on a star, hoping for a blessing like a damn fool.
Bottom of the glass comes quick. Then another. Then another, till the smoke thins and Taft’s crowd starts drifting out, laughter trailing after them, all rosy-cheeked from port wine and parlor talk.
“Mr. Byron,” Taft calls again. He’s on his feet now, standing beside me, hand clapping my shoulder. “You should’ve joined us. We were playing whist, singing a bit. Even tried a hymn or two.”
He’s jawing on, but I ain’t hearing it. My attention’s on the bastard lingering by the door, shaking hands, smiling polite, uniform cut neat as a banker’s.
Hired gun.
Pinkerton.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. That’s a wolf sniffing for blood.
I force myself back to Taft, smoothing my face, settling my voice into that false civility I wore at breakfast, though my tongue’s a little heavier now than it was then. “Cards and hymnals?” I say, trying on a chuckle as if I wouldn’t rather sit onmy spurs than spend an evening singing hymns with them. “Sir, I’m afraid I’d spoil the harmony.”
Taft laughs, squeezes my shoulder like we’re old friends. “Nonsense, Mr. Byron. You’d have fit right in.”
I raise my glass, tip it polite, every inch the man I ain’t, while inside I’m coiling tight as a spring. All the while, that Pinkerton’s focus sweeps the room again, and I feel him stop on me. Turns my blood to ice.
One of the downsides to being built like me is I can’t vanish. I could be wild haired and dusty from the trail, or dressed polite, don’t matter. I stick out same as a black bear in church. That Pinkerton’s studying me like he’s already matched my face to a poster. Pinkertons don’t let go once they catch a scent. They’ll trail you ‘cross three states if they need to. And I ain’t some small-time gambling cheat they’d pass by. No, I’m the kind they’d dream of catching.
“Another round?” Taft asks, flagging the barkeep.
“Kind of you,” I say, laying the drawl on, “but I’ll see myself retired. Early breakfast, you know.”
“Ah yes, yes.” He pats my shoulder again, like he owns me. “Discipline. A fine trait in a man.”
Discipline, hell. Takes all I got to walk slow, calm, when my blood’s pounding to bolt. I nod polite, drain the dregs of my whiskey, and set the glass down careful. My hand don’t shake, though I can feel the tremor in my bones.
As I step away, I can feel the Pinkerton’s scrutiny hook me again, lingering long enough to set my teeth on edge. I don’t meet it. Just tip my head, gentlemanly as can be, and stroll out quiet, same as any other man full of whiskey and weary of company.
